


Twins

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, M/M, Separated at Birth, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), can be platonic or romantic you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: Uther should’ve known what he was getting himself into. When he opened his hand and his heart, for perhaps the last time, and made that choice to weave magic into his family irrevocably. He should have known that there was a risk, a risk that he would not get exactly what it is he so desperately wanted. A risk that the perfect, golden heir he desired wouldn’t be his.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 165





	Twins

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the nonny on tumblr that requested this! I hope it's what you wanted, I had fun with it!

**Twins:** Merlin prompt for you, if you take requests. Thanks! — Merlin is Arthur’s long lost twin (neither of them knew) and at birth, before she died, Ygraine begged a servant to send Merlin far away to protect him from Uther. Hunith ended up finding Merlin on her doorstep and the rest is history- cue the boys discovering this together!

* * *

Uther should’ve known what he was getting himself into. When he opened his hand and his heart, for perhaps the last time, and made that choice to weave magic into his family irrevocably. He should have known that there was a risk, a risk that he would not get exactly what it is he so desperately wanted. A risk that the perfect, golden heir he desired wouldn’t be his.

But then that golden crown of hair had emerged and Uther forgot. The babe was placed into his arms and he smiled down at the little thing, ignoring the drool seeping into his gloves, ignoring the way the baby whined and squirmed, because he had an heir.

“Arthur,” he had breathed, settling the babe back into the nurse’s arms, “Arthur.”

And he had swept down the corridor.

Ygraine had still lain on the bed, in pain. The nurses had widened their eyes in alarm when it started _again._

Another babe emerged, whining in Ygraine’s arms, dark hair, and golden eyes.

Arthur, even as small and new to the world as he was, had reached out chubby arms toward the now weeping babe, trying to wrap his arms around the little one, try and hold him close. The dark-haired babe had nestled in Ygraine’s arms, not quite awake, not quite asleep, but _glowing._ Just enough to make Arthur sigh when the nurse holding him finally caved and brought him over to lay a fat-fingered hand on the other’s arm.

Ygraine cradled her babes to her chest and knew that Uther would only have the one.

“Send for Balinor,” she had said, “he’ll know what to do.”

Balinor did. The Dragonlord knew the price of asking for such a huge magical favor. The arrival of the second babe was the remainder of the magic, knowing it could not remain in Ygraine’s body.

“You must take him,” Ygraine had said, even as she clutched the dark-haired babe in her arms, “you must take him far away from Uther and farther away from here. He’s got your hair. People will believe. You’ve a wife, don’t you?”

Balinor had taken one look at his Queen, at the twins in her arms, at the magic the curled impossibly close around the two of them. He had warned her that already, the magical bond between the two of them was stronger than they could know, and he could not hope to break it without causing irreversible damage to the twins.

“I don’t want you to break it,” Ygraine had said, the stoic resolution of the Queen already coloring her tone again, “I want you to make them _safe._ ”

Balinor could not refuse his Queen.

The dark-haired babe had whimpered as they gently separated the two of them, Arthur already calling out in dismay, as Balinor swaddled the babe in a proper cloth before cradling it snugly in his arms.

“You realize,” Balinor had murmured, “it is unlikely you will see me again.”

“You have been a faithful and true servant to the realm for as long as I can remember,” Ygraine had said, “even more so than I can tell. You will continue to do so, I know, even without me asking.”

Balinor had bowed his head low, and the Queen had breathed her last breath.

He had left Camelot at first light, the babe curled in his arms. His heart had not left his throat until he climbed off his horse into the arms of the woman he loved.

Hunith had taken the babe into her arms and called him her own.

Balinor had not been able to stay. They both knew this. He remained long enough for the magic of the child to make them both nothing more than weeping parents, together for only a moment longer, before Hunith was left alone, the babe in her arms, the magic swirling in delicate golden tendrils around them.

* * *

Arthur lies in his bed, the servants awaiting his every move to offer him a drink, a toy, some food, anything he could need. And they’re supposed to know everything, right? That’s why they’re here, to know what he needs.

But he doesn’t want toys. The toys don’t feel right against his hands all the time, even though they’re of the most high-quality materials coin can by, even though they’re taken away to be dutifully scrubbed within an inch of their toy little plush lives every time Arthur so much as gets dust on them. His hands itch sometimes like they need to be touching something, but nothing ever feels right.

He wants something soft, something warm, something that tingles slightly under his palm. He wants something warm that curled around him, let him run his still clumsy fingers through its fur, or hair, something that could hold him back.

He asked for it a couple of times but the servants don’t know what he wants.

He’s not so sure he does either.

* * *

Merlin lies in his bed, with his mother’s arms wrapped around him. He worries the edge of his blanket between his fingers, cupping it around his cheeks and rubbing it against his face. This is his favorite piece of fabric and he struggles to fall asleep when he doesn’t have it.

When he doesn’t have it, his mother’s arms feel strange when they hold his tightly. They feel too big, too large, too weathered for him, and he doesn’t know why. She smells wrong, too. She smells like home, yes, but she doesn’t smell like _home._ Merlin misses something, maybe he misses a lot, but he doesn’t miss how sometimes he’ll tuck his little head into the crook of his mother’s shoulder and his nose will wrinkle because the sweet smell of spice and oats and salt isn’t what he expected.

Maybe that’s why he wants that blanket so badly. His mother says he came wrapped in it, the last thing from his father before he had to go away. The blanket smells different. It smells sweet, yes, but a different kind of sweetness. It smells of some kind of fruit, something the tingles the end of Merlin’s nose, and something slightly spiced, too. Merlin clutches the blanket tighter. The smell’s going away, it’s getting fainter every night.

Merlin doesn’t know where to go to make it smell right again.

* * *

Arthur runs about the castle, dodging the guards and tucking himself into one of the archways.

“Sire!” _Ugh._ “Sire, we’ve talked about this, you have to stop running away!”

“ _You_ have to stop chasing me,” Arthur mutters under his breath, scampering down the opposite hallway.

His face splits into a grin when he finally spots the window to the training grounds. Glancing around, he jumps through, landing and rolling, not caring about the dirt that sprays up around his boots.

The wind ruffles his hair and coaxes _this way._

A joyful yell rips through the air as Arthur sprints the length of the field, not a knight in sight, just the blood pumping in his veins, into his cheeks, flushing his face as he smiles so hard he thinks it might split. He imagines a figure ahead of him, throwing playful insults over its shoulder, playfully pulling him further away from the castle, from the guards, goading him to keep up. He grins and pours on the speed. They won’t get away this time!

His arms and legs ache by the time he reaches the other end of the field. His lungs are on _fire._ He hunches over, panting, even as the air protests, scraping his throat. He imagines the other figure right next to him, panting through breathless laughter. Arthur imagines making one last swipe, finally snagging the other’s tunic and pulling them close, never letting go.

“I’ve caught you,” he would pant, “now you have to stay.”

Instead, all he gets are the yells from the guards.

* * *

Merlin waves his hand and the leaves swirl up, dancing around him in the forest. Delighted giggles accompany the rustling as they drift slowly back and forth, caught up in an inescapable breeze. One of them smacks him lightly across the face and he stumbles backward, falling smack onto his rear in the massive pile he’s amassed. He almost sinks all the way to the ground.

He flails, sweeping leaf after leaf aside until he’s lying there, still giggling, almost making snow angels in the leaves. They crinkle under his collar and his head, little bits finding their way into his hair and clinging persistently. His magic chuckles, reaching out to stroke the pieces away.

Merlin’s giggles trail off as his magic works. He hasn’t figured out how to make this person real yet. The person who will always come play with him, who will jump and dance about like he wants to. He almost remembers them, almost, remembers a person who will pull him to his feet when he needs help, will fuss over him, and make sure he’s all clean and safe.

He still finds himself reaching for them sometimes, to help them up or for their hand to get himself to his feet. He thinks he sees them behind him sometimes, just out of the corner of his eye, a flash of gold. He thinks that if he were a little better at controlling his magic, maybe they’d be real.

“Come on, Merlin,” they’d say, still holding his hand, “let’s go explore this part of the woods! Don’t be scared, I’ll protect you!”

Instead, all he gets are leaves fluttering around him and the wink of golden magic.

* * *

Princes aren’t supposed to get angry like this. Uther’s stony face glares at him even as Arthur tries to splutter his way through his rage, explain why it isn’t fair that he doesn’t get to train with Morgana anymore. Morgana is _good,_ even though he’d never say that to her face, she’s _good_ and she could be _better_ and it’s not fair that his father is trying to take away the only decent sparring partner he’s had in ages.

But Uther is firm and slams a fist down onto the table, saying that his word is _final_ and Morgana _will not be allowed_ to train anymore.

Arthur doesn’t throw a tantrum, because princes don’t throw tantrums, but he does loudly explain that he thinks his father is wrong, and Morgana won’t be happy about this and then Uther will have to explain it to _her,_ why he doesn’t think she should be allowed to train. Morgana will cry—because she knows Uther has a weakness for that—and then Arthur will have to watch Morgana cry and Arthur doesn’t _want_ to see Morgana cry.

He wants to train with Morgana. He wants Morgana to be happy. He wants someone to be here to back him up.

He wants to just _know_ that there’s something behind him, some _one_ behind him, and always will be. Someone else in the big empty hall, where Uther’s every movement rings out like a thunderclap, where it’s not just him and the guards he knows won’t do anything to stop their king.

He wants to look behind him and catch the eye of someone who _cares,_ someone who will stand by his side and behind him for as long as he needs. He wants to feel the tingle of another presence in the room, a silent witness to whatever happens that it _happened,_ that Uther can’t just turn around and decide this _didn’t_ happen, that it _did,_ that Arthur is _right,_ and that he has a right to be angry.

But Morgana isn’t here. There’s no one else here.

So Arthur raises his chin and faces his father alone.

* * *

Merlin hates that he cries when he’s angry.

It’s the _worst._ The fat horrible tears that bubble up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks are just making it _worse,_ the jeers and cackles from the other boys making them come faster and faster. He balls his fists until his nails bite into his palms and he tries to steady his voice as much as possible, say _give it back, that’s mine, you can’t have it._

The big boys just laugh and smash the pumpkin into the ground, shattering it completely. They stomp on it a few times for good measure before stalking off, their noses in the air, their cackles still raging in Merlin’s ears.

He _hates_ them. He falls to his knees and tries to cobble the pumpkin back together but it’s too late. It’s destroyed. It’s gone. He won’t get his pumpkin back.

He wanted to give it to Will. Will, who was too tired to come to the patch this morning. Will, who asked for a pumpkin that they could carve together, because that’s their _tradition,_ they do it every year, and eat the roasted seeds that Merlin’s mother makes as she laughs at their pulp covered clothes.

  
But now it’s gone.

Merlin glares through watery eyes at the retreating backs of the boys. Oh, how he wants someone here with him, someone who would take one look t his tears and storm after them, knock their heads together, who doesn’t cry when he gets upset.

He wants someone who could stand when Merlin can’t, who could scold the other boys into submission and give them all a good fight if they didn’t get the hint. He wants someone who could come back, panting but still unbruised, and gently help Merlin up, maybe to go find a new pumpkin. He wants someone to be here to tell him it’s alright.

But Will isn’t here. There’s no one else here.

So Merlin gathers up the broken pieces of pumpkin alone.

* * *

Arthur huddles in his bed, clutching a pillow to his chest, all his curtains drawn, the covers pulled all the way up.

He doesn’t like it when these lords come to visit. They scare him. He’s not supposed to be scared by them but he is.

He doesn’t like the way they look at everything. Like they don’t care about the people that work so hard just to survive. Like Uther is just some pawn in their own games, like Arthur isn’t worth more than a cursory evolution.

He doesn’t like how they change his father. How Uther grows colder, if that’s even possible, how he smiles and it looks like he has too many teeth. How he looks at Arthur like Arthur’s some sort of dog that needs to perform all its tricks to be rewarded with a brisk pat at the end of the night.

So he fakes a cough and gets Gaius to bring him a sleeping potion and curls up, safe in the warmth of his chambers, where no one will come in.

Arthur tightens his grip on the pillow, curling in on himself until he hates the way his legs rub together and sweat makes his skin grow slick. He hates this. He _hates_ this.

He wants the person that went away to come back.

He knows now that there was _someone._ The older servants, the older nurses, they always exchange a glance whenever they talk about his mother, his birthday. He asked one of them once, if he had a sibling, and they gave him an answer.

It wasn’t a ‘yes,’ but it may as well have been.

He wants them to come back.

He wants someone in this bed with him, curling up to, muring assurances to two frightened boys that they’re both gonna be okay. He wants someone _he_ can protect, to curl himself around and reassure himself that they won’t touch this one, they can’t destroy everything, there’s still something that can be saved.

A low whimper escapes unbidden and Arthur curls even tighter. In the dark, the strands of thread from the pillow almost feel like hair. Dark hair, nestled under his chin, curling into his embrace. He pictures sharp features, skinny arms, and another source of warmth in this too-big bed, too empty room.

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

* * *

Merlin clutches the blanket that he’s far too old for to his face, curling into the wall of the barn, hidden behind the large stacks of hay.

His magic flits anxiously around him and he swats it away, burying his face into the worn fabric. The smell is gone. The wonderful smell that coaxed him to sleep is no more and he can’t get it back. It’s gone. It’s _gone._ It’s never coming back and he’s lost it, he’s lost it forever and he’s alone now, he’s alone and he never wants to be alone like this, with just too much magic thrumming in his veins.

It’s not happy either, bustling about, whipping up stray pieces of hay this way and that as Merlin frets, rubbing the fabric back off forth over his lips, his hands unable to stop. His magic wants something to _do,_ something to stop, itching to find whatever’s making Merlin so upset and make it go _away._ But it can’t, because it’s not the _presence_ of something that’s making Merlin so upset, it’s the _absence._

Merlin wants whoever left to find him again.

He asked his mother and she said he came from somewhere else. Is he looking for his father? Is that who left? Or was it someone else?

He wants the other small person back. He remembers his magic aching for them, humming contentedly when they were both together, twirling around and around the pair of them as they lay intertwined. He wants them back, wants them here, wants their scent to settle comfortingly around the both of them until they both fall asleep in each other’s arms.

His magic frets, trying to whisk up something to fix, something to help, but all it manages to do is shine brightly, golden, and form some kind of big blanket, stretching wide over Merlin’s curled-up form, but settling too lightly, always too lightly, never warm enough, never solid enough.

He wants to be found again.

He doesn’t belong here. His mother tries, Will tries, they all _try,_ but it’s not enough. Merlin knows right down to his bones, to his magic, that he doesn’t fit here. This isn’t his home.

He wants whoever was his home to come to find him again.

He doesn’t want to be alone anymore.

* * *

“Do I know you?”

“I’m Merlin.”

“So I don’t know you.”

_You will,_ laughs a golden voice on the wind, _you already do._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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